Forever Bad
by ifsoboy96
Summary: Jesse Pinkman is finally free... But is he free from his inner demons?


Forever Bad

i.

Jesse Pinkman could not believe his eyes. Hands on the wheel, feet crushing the accelerator, adrenaline coursing through his veins. _I'm free, this is it. I'm free._ His mind screamed and the light from the streetlights blazed through his eyes like flashes of lightning, each sending a burst of pain through his skull. When was the last time he had seen such light? Tears streamed down his badly scarred face. He started crying. _I'm free. Why the fuck am I crying? Why the fuck?_ He sobbed audibly, trying his best to keep his eyes on the road. It was hard to drive at 110 miles per hour after being locked up in a cage for a year.

_No, I can't do this._

Jesse screeched the car to a stop. A confused looking deer appeared in front of him, shining marvelously in the beam of the headlights. The euphoria of having escaped certain death and narcotic enslavement was starting to subside. Slowly but surely, reality began to kick in. The reality of his life, his fucked up life. His life that was fucked upside down by Mr. White. No, by that bitch fucker Walt. _Walt._ Hot tears continued their path down the terraneous wasteland that was his battered face. He touched it gently and felt the hard scar tissue. _Fuck you Walt. Fucking Mr. White is finally dead. _

The deer, recovering from its momentary hypnosis, moved on swiftly and leaped into the woods, leaving Jesse with a view of nothing but emptiness. Rain started pelting down on the hood of his car, each drop leaving a heavier thump. He watched as they danced their usual dance, how magnificent they looked in the beam of the headlights. For a few moments, his mind quietened down and an uncanny peace started descending upon him. The tears left tracks on his face and he felt them dry up with inconceivable clarity. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. The rain fell and Jesse Pinkman fell into a deep slumber. In the middle of the road, headlights on. He had never slept so well in a year. And that night, he slept like a fucking baby.

_NO! DON'T YOU DARE! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HER MOTHERFUCKER! NO! _Jesse woke up with a jolt. Beads of sweat trickled down to his chin and began dripping onto his chest. The relentless rays of the sun had disrupted his flashback about Andrea. He sat up and tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. _Fuck…_ A throbbing pain had begun in his head and he sensed that it would develop into a full-blown artillery war by mid-day. He pulled open the glove box and fished for a bottle of water. _Anything, god dammit. _He found a bottle of Aspirin, probably expired, but downed a couple anyway. He chewed on them, feeling the bitterness overwhelm his mouth and relished in it. Somehow that was the closet semblance to any emotion he could muster in the past year. If anything, the horror show of Andrea's death that had unwittingly surfaced in his mind's eye for perhaps the millionth time reminded him of a fact that he should have seen right from the outset – he was poison to anyone and anything that he cared for. First, it was his little brother and the weed. Then Jane's overdose. Then Badger's death. Then Brock's poisoning. Then Mike. Then… then Andrea. Everyone that he cared for had been ripped mercilessly from him, because of him. And now, sitting in front of the wheel, feeling exhausted yet rested all at once, Jesse Pinkman had decided that he has had enough. He stepped on the accelerator.

ii.

Jesse stopped in front of a breakfast diner and stepped out. "Mary Rose's Cafe" screamed from the signboard in bright yellow. He pushed the swing door and entered. Finding a seat at the counter, he ordered scrambled eggs and toast and sat waiting in patience, feeling the cold hard piece of security in his trouser pocket. That sweet piece of steel.

"Here you go darling," a middle-aged waitress with an irresistible smile greeted Jesse with his plate.

"Want some coffee to go with that?"

"Naw, I'm good, thanks."

"Eat up honey. And get some rest will ya? You look bad. Pardon me." She continued, turning to walk away before finishing her sentence.

_Now is the time. NOW. _

"Hey, wait, I may need-"Jesse reached out and grabbed her shoulder in mid-turn. With his other hand, he brought his .33 caliber up to her forehead. And what a look she gave when she turned with that trademark smile of hers. A look of disorientation first painted her face. Then, fear doused that smile when she felt the cold muzzle pressed against her forehead.

"Get me the money. All of it. Now." Jesse spoke. He was surprised at how calm he was. How… collected he felt. A lady-like scream pierced the abrupt silence. As if he had rehearsed this to perfection, Jesse raised his pistol and fired two shots at the ceiling, sending bits of white plaster plummeting down onto the floor.

"Another word, bitch, and she dies. You hear me? All of you? No one moves." He called out, feeling a steady thump in his chest. His palms were dry. And he was breathing normally. God damn.

The waitress, now visibly distressed and freed from all that sunshine radiance went behind the counter and opened the cash register. Ashen-faced, she handed Jesse a small wad of ten's and twenty's, hands shaking. Now, people in the diner were crying. Suppressed cries surfacing as whimpers that would once melt Jesse's heart and send him running out the door. But not today. Not now.

"We've just opened for business… Here's all we have…" The waitress tried her best to sound undaunted but the shakiness in her voice betrayed her badly. Jesse took the cash and turned behind to survey the diners. He spotted a man standing up in his seat and wielding a butter knife in one hand, brandishing it, poking it in the air haphazardly. Jesse smirked.

"Get the fuck outta here, boy! You worthless piece of shit!" Age had gotten the better of him and the slight gestures had evidently exhausted the man with the butter knife.

"Like I said, not a word." Jesse spoke in a voice so cold, so distant, he could no longer recognize it to be his own. With that, unflinchingly, he aimed his pistol at the man who was slowly advancing towards him, butter knife in hand.

"You said way too many." Jesse Pinkman pulled the trigger.


End file.
